


His-Not-His

by OmalleyMeetsTibbs



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27065728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmalleyMeetsTibbs/pseuds/OmalleyMeetsTibbs
Summary: Sherlock needs to avoid a certain ex at a party, so he asks John for help. Pretending might just be too hard when both of them want it to be real so badly.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 186





	His-Not-His

**Author's Note:**

  * For [simplyclockwork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, dear friend!! It's been a while since I've written, so it's not my best work, but I do hope you enjoy some Johnlock fluff as a way to celebrate you! You are a delightful person and deserve all the things you love and want :)

“John,” Sherlock said from his perch in front of the microscope on the table. John halted on his way to his chair and waited for Sherlock to continue. Without taking his focus away from the slide, hands adjusting the knobs for a better visual, Sherlock made the most unusual request.

“You need to be my boyfriend for a bit.”

Sputtering over his coffee, John responded, “Yeah. Of course I do.” He expected Sherlock to look up. It didn’t happen. With the tilt of his head, John set his mug down, rather forcefully, on the table. “Sherlock,” he said, crossing his arms. When he still didn’t receive the man’s attention, he asked, “What are you on about?”

Sherlock flicked his hand through the air, waving away the question. “Annoying parties. Absurd expectations.”

The vague response piqued John’s interest and a hint of a smirk played at his lips. “Ah. An ex. I see.”

Sherlock’s head darted up from the microscope. A wide-eyed look withered into a scowl. Suppressing a chuckle, John picked up his coffee and hid his smile behind a sip. He’d hit it spot on. Sherlock’s got an ex, and he wanted to make him ( _or her_ John’s conscience supplied) jealous.

A small pang of excitement-laced hurt lanced through John’s chest. He finally had a chance to be with Sherlock, but it would all be pretend.

“Yeah. Alright. I’ll do it.” John watched as Sherlock’s shoulders visibly unfurled, and the tension in them dissipated. “What’s the plan, then?”

He swore he saw a twinkle pass through those piercing, pale eyes. _What the bloody hell did I get myself into?_ John thought.

———

 _People. People everywhere. God, they’re annoying._ Sherlock meandered through the familiar space of his parents' house, hoping to find his way to the safe nook that protected him from most of the fray. A hand landed on his shoulder and paused his steps. John. Sliding his eyes closed, Sherlock let the small bit of warmth bleed through his suit and into his skin.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

———

John hadn’t ever been to a party quite like a Holmes’ party. Gorgeous outfits, petit fours offered on trays, flutes of champagne, people talking business and children and small talk. The atmosphere was light and happy.

It made John want to crawl out of his skin. If he was having such trouble, John wondered how Sherlock was handling it. This kind of thing was not his forte, and they hadn’t even run into the dreaded ex yet. At least, not that John could tell. He still didn’t know who he was supposed to be… protecting? Sherlock from.

Shaking his head, John placed a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back as he leaned up to whisper in his ear about moving away from the most boring conversation of the night. He was about to suggest the delightful looking somethings on the table across the room when Sherlock’s face caught his eye.

John had seen this look before. After the row with the chip-and-pin machine, as he attempted a deduction, when he was rigged to a bomb. It was a look of fear laced with adoration, soft around the eyes yet holding something back. John’s breath caught in his throat, his words dying on his tongue.

John stared, searching those blue eyes that stared right back.

A cough over his left shoulder broke him out of the moment, and he let his hand drop away, his fingertips singing at the loss.

———

Sherlock’s brain whirled through what had happened, John’s face telling a story he didn’t understand.

Love. Acceptance. Joy. Pain. Confusion. Hurt. Anger. Loss. What did all that amount to?

He was still staring at the back of John’s head when he heard a voice he had been hoping to avoid.

“Ah. Sherlock. I was hoping that was you. Wasn’t sure if you would come after last year.”

Stomach clenching, Sherlock fought through a grimace and placed what he hoped was a pleasant smile on his face. Based on the look from John, he hadn’t quite got it right.

“It is my parents’ house, my parents’ party, my parents’ tradition, is it not?” Sherlock spat back without losing the plastered-on smile. John shifted beside him, stepping closer and into the space in front of him.

John. His lovely John. Well not his John, but his John. Always protecting. A smirk played at the corner of Sherlock’s lips. How could he have ever doubted John for a second?

“Quite right, as always.” Victor’s tease came with an eye roll and a smile as he sipped his drink. “And who is it that you brought this year?” With a mild-mannered sneer, he glanced down at John before addressing Sherlock again. “I was hoping for the silver fox again, but I hear there was some brotherly competition on that front.”

Before Sherlock could answer, John cut in. “John. John Watson.” Sherlock noticed that John had not offered his normal handshake, nor asked for the man’s name in return. It was all he could do to stifle a laugh. His-not-his-John.

Swirling his drink, Victor responded, “Ah. Your blogger. I did wonder,” and winked salaciously at Sherlock. “Always did like to mix a bit of work and fun.”

Without having to look, Sherlock could feel John bristle beside him and decided to take control of the situation. A rarity around Victor but nonetheless welcome. He placed a hand on John’s elbow and drew him back.

“Nice catching up, Victor. As always. But I do believe there are some canapés much more interesting than this conversation.” With that, he turned around and felt John’s hand slip into his own, threading their fingers together. A small squeeze of reassurance connected directly to his heart, and even as he couldn’t breathe, he felt like he could fly. Glancing at John, he squeezed back, thanking him for being there, wishing, hoping, aching that this could be real instead.

———

“Always did have a sweet tooth,” the man called behind them as they walked away. The tension spiked through John’s shoulders. That arsehole, whoever he was, must be the reason John was here pretending in the first place.

So it was a he then. Questions rolled around John’s head, reverberating off his skull. _Silver fox. Mixing work and fun. Last year._ So many tidbits in one small conversation, it was making him reel.

When Sherlock returned the gentle squeeze and looked at him, John knew it didn’t really matter. All that mattered was the man before him, holding his hand, and making sure he was taken care of. Even if that meant it was only pretend.

———

While they were collecting macaroons and bits with chocolate on and a scone with lemon curd, Mycroft sidled up to them, Lestrade drawing John’s attention away. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock continued choosing sweets for the small plate he held in an attempt to ignore his brother.

“I see congratulations are in order then. I was wondering when the looks would finally become reality. But a word of advice, brother mine, whatever it is that you two are hiding from each other, don’t.”

Sherlock glared at his brother then, hoping to end the conversation with a stare.

“Now, now. Don’t try to hide it from me. Caring isn’t an advantage, but now that you’ve already fallen, might as well make it work.” Mycroft plucked a pale-green macaroon from Sherlock's plate and observed it as he spoke again. “It’s quite obvious how much you two have fallen for each other. Don’t ruin it.” As he popped the sugary confection into his mouth, he turned and walked to Lestrade.

John was still talking to the detective—John’s hand clapped to his shoulder, eyes crinkled from an open-mouthed laugh. That familiar ache spread through Sherlock’s chest. Could Mycroft be right?

———

The night drug on, managing to force them into the presence of Victor only two times more. Lestrade had been helpful in filling in some of the basic details, but John watched him follow Sherlock’s every move with his eyes. No matter where the two were in the room, Victor’s eyes found Sherlock in a way that made John’s jaw clench. There was definitely something off about the man, but Sherlock would tell him if he needed to know. So John ignored the twisting of his gut and resigned himself to sticking by Sherlock’s side. That’s what a pretend boyfriend was supposed to do, wasn’t it?

Finally, they were sitting in the cab on the way back to Baker Street. Exhaustion won out, and after a whispered thank you, Sherlock’s body drooped into a loose-limbed puddle in his seat. John smiled as he took in the form next to him, gentle and calm in a way Sherlock only was when sleep took him. This was his second favorite Sherlock, just after rapid-fire-deduction Sherlock.

A bump in the road jostled the sleeping man, and his head came to lay on John’s shoulder. He stiffened, waiting for Sherlock jolt awake. When he didn’t but instead let out a small sigh and nestled his face deeper into the crook of John’s neck, John’s eyes slid closed. Resting his cheek on the mass of curls, he breathed in Sherlock’s scent and smiled. The excited-hurt feeling blossomed through his chest again, but he pushed it away and let himself rest against the man on his shoulder.

When they pulled in front of Baker Street, John looked down at the still sleeping form. Whispering Sherlock’s name, he stroked the sharp cheekbone with the back of his fingers, hoping to ease Sherlock from his sleep. Sherlock wrinkled his nose and tucked himself deeper into John’s shoulder, and John chuckled. His heart ached for his beautiful man that was not his.

With a brush of Sherlock’s curls away from his face, John tried waking him again. This time, electric eyes met his.

“John,” Sherlock said through his sleep-grogged voice. The world dropped away from them, those eyes locked on his. They were no longer in a cab at night in front of their flat. There was no cabbie, no fare to be paid. There were no sounds of traffic or distant sirens. There were no streetlights casting an orange-yellow hue.

They were seated, floating through deep, dark space, the only light coming from Sherlock’s gaze, the heat of where they were still touching.

“John,” Sherlock whispered again as he leaned forward, hot breath puffing across John’s face. “Please.” John felt the word spoken against his lips, barely there, ghosting its presence against his mouth.

Lifting his hand to cup Sherlock’s jaw, John closed the scant distance between them with a firm press of his lips to the lush full ones he had so long been aching to taste.

The world came crashing around them when a throat was cleared. The cabbie met John’s gaze in the mirror and gave a small nod. With a smile he couldn’t hide if he tried, John paid the driver and laced his fingers with Sherlock’s as they exited the cab.

As they stood in front of the black door with gold lettering, John looked up at the man beside him and found his gaze met with a soft grin.

Perhaps it hadn’t been pretend after all.


End file.
